


A Mars Family Christmas

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Veronica Mars Holiday Gift Exchange 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5508644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Veronica and Logan make it home for the holidays. Chaos ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mars Family Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Applemysteries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Applemysteries/gifts).



> A Veronica Mars Holiday Gift Exchange fic for Applemysteries. I very much hope you enjoy!
> 
> My prompts were: 
> 
> 1) Keith/and Wallace find(s) out Logan burned down the community pool. Points if it happens over some sort of holiday meal featuring a very flustered Logan and Veronica. 
> 
> 2) Lilly + a mostly reluctant Logan team up to teach Veronica how to kiss 
> 
> I based the fic on prompt 1, and made reference to prompt 2. (I also wrote another fic kinda sorta based on prompt 2, which I MAY finish up and post. But not this week). 
> 
> Happy holidays everyone! Have some snark, mayhem, family bonding and Christmas smut, on me. :-)

December 25 2015

“I loathe Christmas,” Logan says with a sigh, as we idle in a taxi in front of my Dad’s house. 

“You loathe everything,” I counter, rooting through my purse for my wallet. The bag is multi-pocketed and ergonomic, with a complex organizational scheme, which Logan fucks up every time he digs for condoms. “You’re not an impartial judge.”

“Not EVERYTHING,” he protests. He extracts his own wallet, and passes the cabbie a hundred. “I like puppies. And Hawaii. And YOU.”

“Man, I can’t make change for this.” The driver, a bearded guy in the beach bum mold, offers the bill back, frowning.

“Keep it,” Logan says, with a dramatic wave of one hand. “We’ll dither for a while before we go in, anyway, working up our nerve.”

“Why do you DO that?” I demand. Draw the zipper shut on the chaos of my purse, with rancor. “You throw money around like confetti. Those green pieces of paper DO have value, beyond cementing your celebutante status.”

“That tip has value to HIM,” Logan argues. “He’s got to put up with your one-sided fight, against a lovable guy who adores you. He should at least earn shopping money in the bargain.”

“Ugh, I hate your new passive-aggressive tactic of not arguing back!” I yank my scarf tight around my neck. “You’re the ONE person I can count on to sarcastically retort! And on THIS day of ALL days, you can’t let me smack you down, then feel smug?”

“Just helping you warm up, sugar pants,” he says, with a smirk. “Parker will zing you ten times before we eat. You need to ramp up your defenses to stun.”

“GOD. You’re right. You know, I used to LOVE this holiday, Logan. I used to dress like an elf, and decorate the whole house, and bask in my father’s adoration while icing gingerbread men. But ever since SHE came into our lives to stay, I’ve learned to dread it worse than tax day. And let me tell you, coping with tax day, when you’re common-law married to a multimillionaire, is no easy task!”

“Dude, you’re a multimillionaire?” the cab driver asks Logan. “SWEET!”

“Also a professional surfer,” Logan drawls. “I can afford every excess, and I’ve never worked a day in my life. Her dad LOVES me.”

“Whoa, wait wait wait!” The cabbie turns to fix his red-rimmed eyes on his passengers. “Are you Logan ECHOLLS? Like from the Surf Giants team? Like the big-wave monster-riding BEAST who cannot be TAMED?”

“Aw, check it out, sweet pea,” Logan bobs his brows at me, his tone silky. “I just bestowed my beneficence on an adoring fan!”

“Dude, did you really stick that huge-ass wave in the Banzai Pipeline?” the guy demands. “Like ALL the way down? Bro, you’re a fucking LEGEND!”

“In his own mind,” I snap, jamming my hat on my head, yanking the door open. “Come on, big boy, you can play King of the Slackers on your own time. We’ve got to storm the fortress STAT, before Parker makes all the snickerdoodles.”

“It’s a good thing you’re not competitive,” Logan says, grabbing the three giant sacks containing gifts. “Imagine how bad this evening could get, if you tried to win the popularity contest at any cost.”

I sneer at him, and he grabs and kisses me, spinning me across Dad’s immaculate grass. “For luck,” he says, smiling down. His hair’s tousled, his cheeks rosy with cold, and the honey-colored scarf tucked in his green peacoat turns his eyes bronze. 

I gaze up at him, and melt. I’m seventeen, tearing up a check I NEED, because I can’t take his money when his mom is dead. I’m nineteen, attending the Party From Hell, because he brought me coffee and deployed his soulful stare. I’m twenty-three, putting my career on hold, so he can ‘show me the whole crazy world’. 

Thus far, the trip’s lasted six years. Turns out, the world’s a big place.

“I hope you don’t want something I’ll regret, right now,” I say. “Because you know I can’t resist that face.”

“I WANT you to paste on your brightest, whitest pep squad smile,” he says. “And win back your princess crown, by any means necessary. THEN we’ll celebrate by doing it behind the Christmas tree, while your family watches Charlie Brown.”

“Oooh, I like the way you think.” I tuck my arm through his, donning the smile in question and towing his reluctant form up the walk. “NOTHING turns me on like a good pyrrhic victory!”

XXXXX

“Veronica!” Alicia Fennel-Mars cries, and opens the door, beaming. She’s in Dad’s ‘Kiss the Chef’ apron, over a green and gold wrap dress; curls have escaped the knot on her head, and partially obscure one eye. Warm light streams out around her, beckoning us home. “And Logan! Welcome! I just put sweet potatoes in the oven, we’ll eat in about an hour?”

We take turns hugging her; Logan adds a spin and cheek-kiss, earning him a playful swat. I shake my head at his effortless charm, which has only grown stronger with age. 

Alicia curls her arm through his, leads us into the den. It’s a gold-toned space, littered with candles, scented by spices and pine. Dad’s on the couch, appetizers spread before him; he’s in his ‘All I Want For Christmas Is a Pennant for the Padres’ shirt, which is getting thin with age. Wallace lounges alongside, in Armani casual only a Laker could afford. His younger daughter Maya is snuggled close, eating Goldfish daintily from a pink plastic bowl.

“Keith, the kids are here!” Alicia calls, distracting Dad from the Suns-Rockets game. He struggles to his feet, sidestepping the coffee table, and moves to greet us. He’s packed on a few pounds since his marriage to a good cook. And his smile’s wider than it used to be, when the two of us lived alone.

“Well, look who did a fly-by to say hello!” Dad’s fake joke falls flat, but he pretends not to notice. He gives Logan’s hand a perfunctory shake, me a more genuine hug. “Where’ve you been this time, Timbuktu?”

“Sumatra,” Logan corrects. “I tried my hand at surfing Pulau Nias, and Veronica did a piece for National Geographic, about War Dances and Megaliths. They put her photo on the COVER.” 

Logan’s response to snide remarks, lately, is innocent-eyed fake sincerity. It enrages snarkers more than anything he’s tried so far, because they come off like assholes, while he seems mature. He injects the faintest hint of mockery into his voice and eyebrow movements, and often manages to make them explode.

Dad recognizes this tactic, but hasn’t figured out an effective counter-attack. He narrows his eyes, and disengages. 

“That sounds interesting!” Alicia says. She shoots a significant glance at Dad, which he manages to ignore. “Wallace, doesn’t that sound interesting?” she persists, seeking support elsewhere.

“ALL V’s photo essays are interesting.” Wallace gives Maya a top-of-the-head kiss, and approaches for a hug. “I blew up that picture of Sudanese kids playing basketball to six by six feet, and hung it in my den.”

“Logan bribed the one boy to wear a Fennel jersey, just so you know,” I say. “The photo won a prize, though. Nobody caught on.”

“Veronica, you need to leave a man his DREAMS,” Wallace says, with the laughing-eyed knee bounce he uses to punctuate. “Here I was thinking my fame was WORLD-WIDE, and you got to come in and crush the illusion.”

Wallace has achieved all his goals—love, a stable family, A-list fame. It’s made him chiller than ever, maybe even a bit complacent. He cruises through life while troubles pass him by, and lets his wife handle the problems.

“You know how obsessed Veronica is with the truth, and nothing but.” Logan tucks hair back out of my eye, smiling. “It’s best to let her rip off the band-aid, even when it stings.”

“Obsessed is a strong word,” I counter, and smirk. “’Dedicated to revealing’ sounds better.”

“Uh-huh,” Wallace says. “HOW many shenanigans did I cover up, back in your mystery-solving days? Maya, come give your Aunt a hug. She needs to see how big you’ve gotten.”

Maya, who IS tall for 7, steps forward obediently, hands folded. She always looks gilded, even in bright sunshine, her coloring topaz and amber; but in soft light, she almost shimmers. She’s dressed in an expensive taffeta number, white splashed with peonies, topped with a dainty pink cardigan. Her curls are held back by a wide, pink ribbon, and her Mary Janes perfectly match. She gazes up at me with Wallace’s warm brown eyes, and blatantly wishes herself elsewhere. “Hi, Auntie Veronica.”

“Hey,” I say, and let Logan kneel to hug her, because I only embrace the willing. Maya adores Logan, though; he’s him, and she’s female. She smiles shyly and poses, while he compliments her dress. 

“Snickerdoodles in ten minutes!” Parker chirps, emerging from the kitchen. Logan stands and throws an arm around me, so I won’t go for her throat.

Parker’s all in pink, too, from her bow-at-the-throat Ann Taylor sweater to the pointed-rose toes of her mules. Her long blonde hair gleams in the candlelight, she’s got diamond studs in her ears; the rock on her finger’s so flashy, she could use it to explore caves. She’s relentlessly cheerful, adored by all, more practically perfect than Mary Poppins. Only the fact that Logan likes me better keeps me from strangling her in her sleep.

“Parker!” I say, with my fakest, toothiest smile. “You made the cookies before I got here! Again!”

“Well, you were so LATE…” She grins and handwaves, airy, like this isn’t worth discussing. “And you know it’s a Fennel-Mars tradition! Although I have a sneaking suspicion WHY you’re late, and I can’t say I blame you! Hubba-hubba, Logan! How do you keep getting MORE handsome?”

She goes in for a hug; he makes apologetic eyebrows at me and accepts, gingerly patting. “You know I can’t ADMIT to plastic surgery, Parker,” he says, disengaging. “My parents would roll in their graves.”

“Oh, ha ha, what a comedian.” She smacks him good-naturedly on the arm, which makes him wince. Turns to fuss over Maya, smoothing and tidying. “Bet you’re having fun watching basketball,” she says, smiling into her daughter’s eyes. “When you’re a star on the court like Daddy, everyone will be so proud! And you’ve done a great job keeping your dress pretty, and being on your best behavior. So that’s TWO cookies you’ve earned!”

Parker likes to underscore her superior parenting skills by displaying them for audiences. References to the advanced skillsets of her offspring, and her commitment to Girl Power, are invariably made.

Maya smiles, genuine, revealing a missing front tooth. “I’m gonna be tall like you, so I can slam dunk,” she whispers. 

Wallace calls, “Parker have you been telling her that nonsense again?” which makes Parker laugh. 

“We are powerful women, and we can do ANYTHING,” she whispers back to Maya. She flicks Wallace playfully on the shoulder, when he bumps her with his hip. 

“Did somebody say snickerdoodles?” Dad shakes off the basketball trance that’s reclaimed him, and rubs his hands together. “I’ll have to join Parker’s Spin class after the holidays, if you two keep baking this way!”

“Ten minutes, and then you wait for them to cool,” Parker warns, pointing an admonitory finger. “I haven’t spent ten years with Wallace Fennel for nothing, Mr. Mars. I know EXACTLY how many cookies are on that tray.”

“Ah, but I’m a private detective. Trained in the arts of misdirection and subterfuge.” He puts an arm around Alicia, kisses her cheek; I tuck my shaggy bob behind my ears, and wish I could be the one to make him smile. 

“Let me take your coats,” Alicia says, reinforcing the guest motif. I shrug out of my hat, my quilted grey coat, reluctant to shed the camouflage. My scarf is silk, shades of blue and green, embroidered with gold beads and bells; Logan bought it in Thailand, on my birthday, let me use it to tie him up. The softness of it comforts me, as it slips through my hands.

Wallace admires my sky-blue dress, Balinese, gold-embroidered, and silk. Like the scarf, it’s a favorite treasure, makes me feel both glamorous and sleek. Next to their pampered bodies, though, I just look ropy and tanned; my aesthetic’s less suburban, which seems yet another chasm. 

Logan traces a finger down my arm, entwines our hands. I smile up at him, focusing. He’s in jeans and a blue cashmere v-neck, tasty, chiseled and dangerous….the real-life action hero Aaron Echolls never was. We’re strong, honed, and accomplished; I love our confidence and power. But I miss being pink and adorable when Dad’s gaze slides away.

“Where are Darryl and the girls?” I ask, as Logan makes a beeline for the eggnog. The corner of my mouth twitches down; booze turns his sarcasm nasty, and ramps up his tendency towards drama. But he brings me a cup, so I bite my tongue, because Jesus, I need a drink.

“Upstairs, in the media room, watching the Hunger Games.” Alicia points, rolling expressive eyes. “Nothing says holiday spirit like children killing each other for sport.”

“Wait ‘til you see Darryl’s jacket,” Wallace murmurs in my ear, eyes dancing. “Just WAIT.”

“His outfit is the height of fashion,” Parker chides, catching this exchange; but Wallace mouths ‘unh-UH’, unrepentant. I smile; at least WALLACE still loves me. Alicia fights a grin too, so I know the jacket’s good.

“So DAD,” I say, taking the bull by the horns. I cross to the Dad-height Christmas tree, where he’s straightening Padres ornaments, and bring up the one thing I KNOW we have in common. “How’s business? Any interesting or tawdry cases in the pipeline?”

He sighs, shifting a baseball-playing-Santa up, because even distribution is crucial. “Three cheating husbands, two background checks, and a boyfriend with a checkered past,” he says, with the grimace I remember well. “Same old song. Six more years, one last college education, and we’ll foxtrot into the sunset, while Miles Davis plays.”

“Oh, I look FORWARD to that day,” Alicia puts in, emerging from the coat closet. “Software development pays well, but the fun factor is minimal.”

“The number one reason I turned down the FBI,” I agree, toasting her with my drink. “On the one hand, I might have saved lives. On the other, bureaucracy makes me miserable.”

“And I admit I sleep better at night,” Logan puts in, tossing back half his eggnog. “Knowing Ronnie’s not out chasing serial killers, armed with nothing but a handgun and her wits.”

“Yes, but law enforcement is the most honorable of careers,” Dad contributes. “And a job in the states would mean we SEE you sometimes. Even Mr. NBA over there makes it home for Sunday Dinner.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” I ask. “Ready to celebrate and brimming with good cheer!”

“Hey, I KNOW what would get this party started,” Parker interjects, clapping her hands. “Christmas music! It’s the kind of multi-generational fun that bonds EVERYONE!”

Logan tenses and squeezes his eyes shut, as she marches to the stereo. A few seconds later, the NSYNC Christmas album begins. “Please shoot me,” he murmurs, as Parker swings her hips; he polishes off his drink. 

“Not unless you shoot me first,” I retort, and take a sip myself. “You’re not leaving me behind to cope with this solo.”

“Hey, remember when Logan dressed like Justin Timberlake?” Parker calls, enthusiasm undeterred. I snicker into my drink; she wasn’t even AROUND for the acute phase, with the parachute pants and frosted tips.

“You kids and your boy bands,” Dad says, helping himself to a nacho. “In my day, it was Freddy Fender and Manilow at Christmas, which…really was not better.”

“WHY did you think I was hot, again, back in 2003?” Logan asks, spinning me under his arm. Because when he’s forced to listen to bad music, he forces me to swing-dance. 

“EVERYONE thought you were hot,” I say. “WEEVIL thought you were hot, and you were his sworn enemy. Besides, I wore neckties as belts. With HAREM PANTS. It’s not like I get to throw stones.”

“Mmmmm, and those teeny micro-minis with boots, and belly-baring tees. God BLESS Christina Aguilera. My teenaged libido owes her BIG.”

I wrinkle my nose and give a showing-my-gums grin, the deliberate goofy face that melts him. He tips the last bit of eggnog to my lips, sets my glass on the bar. Dips me extravagantly, smiling into my eyes. “As soon as it’s not winter, I’m taking you to Andalusia,” he says. “We can swim all morning, nap all afternoon, eat all evening, and fool around until we fall asleep. I will spoil you, and spoil you, and everything will be fine.”

“Everything’s fine now,” I say. “But that sounds like a good time.”

Dad sweeps Alicia into a complicated spin, which makes her laugh; they go around the room together, fleet-footed. Wallace busts a couple moves in front of Parker, which she takes as a challenge. They laugh as they compete, two genuinely cheerful people in harmony. Dad smiles at me as he dances past, and I smile back; for a minute, we feel like a real family. 

But it’s never the moments of friendly accord that last.

“WHAT are y’all DOING down here?” Darryl calls, descending the staircase. At twenty, he’s lean and trendy, hair poufed in an asymmetric style. He’s wearing a dress shirt and skinny tie, beneath a silver Bruno Mars jacket, and looks almost too hipster to bear. His jeans are so narrow I have no clue how they fit, and he’s got silver wing tips on his feet. “Oh, no no no no no, you guys! My family is an old-fashioned DISASTER ZONE!”

“They’re DORKS,” my sister Anita says, following him down. At eleven, she’s nearing puberty, and she’s mastered the attitude early. Her clothing’s all kid; Gravity Falls T-shirt, Pikachu hoodie, red plaid Capri pants, sneakers that flash. She’s got heart-shaped hoops in her newly pierced ears, though, and the lip gloss she’s wearing is red. She looks like Alicia, with Dad’s light brown eyes, but she’s Mars to the very core. “Except Pops, who’s exempt from dorkitude. His dorkiness is so immense, it cancels itself out.”

“Don’t let anybody tell you you’re not a charmer,” Dad says, hooking an arm around her neck, kissing the top of her head. She pretends to struggle, rolls her eyes, but I was her, once. She’s faking.

“At least Veronica’s here,” she adds, slouching across the living room, slumping heavily against me. It’s more like she’s too bored to stand, than like she actually wants a hug; but I put an arm around her, anyway. “When you don’t show, the photo under the tree always TOTALLY sucks.”

God, I wish all kids were like my sister. She’s the only half-grown person I’ve met to whom I really relate.

“You know what’s great?” I ask Wallace. “Siblings who appreciate your strengths. Which, in my case, do NOT include dancing.”

“I can’t cope with the attitude in that part of the room,” Wallace says, still grooving with Parker, defying mockery. He gestures at me, Logan and Anita, clustered together. “You want to talk to me, you come over here, to the happy, friendly safe zone.”

“The NSYNC-hole,” Logan mutters, under his breath, and Anita overhears, and snickers. “Don’t quote me, A, seriously. Everyone knows I’m a bad influence.”

“Duh,” she says, elbowing his side. “That’s the main reason I like you.” 

He musses the ears of her hoodie like they’re hair, and says, “You and your sister both.”

Darryl yanks Parker’s iPhone from the docking station, bringing the dance-off to a halt. He replaces it with his own, ignoring Wallace’s “Hey!” The strains of Daft Punk split the room, and he executes a spin, flashing his smuggest smile. “Now THIS music’s worthy of my talents,” he says, and demonstrates some step-turn, which girls his age no doubt love.

“Is this disco?” Dad asks Alicia, brow wrinkling. “Didn’t disco stop being cool when WE were his age?”

“I think it’s ironic?” Alicia ventures. “Or is ironic not hip anymore, either? It could be a nostalgic tribute, to an era these kids missed.”

“At moments like this, I feel the weight of my years,” Logan says, with a sigh. He spins Anita, making her smile, but holds me close to his side. “I was the alpha jackass of Neptune High, yet I find myself agreeing with Keith.”

Parker’s oldest daughter Sonja emerges from the kitchen, shouting, “Mom, the cookies are ready!” At nine, she’s a mini-Parker, with darker eyes and hair; but she lacks her father’s mellowness, and her mother’s relentless cheer. There’s something Madison Sinclair about Sonja, much as it pains me to say. Her blank expression and surface perfection hide seething subconscious depths. 

“Baby, you’re a lifesaver!” Parker crows, giving Wallace a pat. She crosses to Sonja and kisses her hair, straightens the collar of her dress. It’s a mass of deep rose georgette ruffles, topped by a white cardigan; as soon as Parker looks away, Sonja shifts the collar back. “Come on, sweetheart, help me, let’s get the next batch done. Grandma needs the kitchen pretty soon.”

“Want an extra hand?” I ask, out of perversity, maybe. Anita snorts at Parker’s expression, and Logan heads back to the eggnog.

Parker laughs, a genuine giggle, like I just made the day’s best joke. “We’ve got it, Veronica, thanks. Why don’t you unearth the lost remote, instead? A girl should play to her strengths, and yours is really detecting.”

My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches. Because not only do I kick ass in the kitchen, these days; but I can cook over a campfire, or a wood-burning stove, and make food from a dozen countries. I HAVE grown-up, though, despite popular opinion. So Parker’s not a mass of ashes…and I’m not sneering as I blow out the match.

“Insecure, much?” Anita mutters, and I have to fight a smile. “What did you DO back in college to SCAR her this way? Because there’s this one really annoying girl at my school…”

“Nita!” Alicia calls, heading her off. “Come on, you’re the artist in the family. Help me set the table.”

Anita rolls her eyes, but she’s proud of her drawings, and pleased when they get a mention. “Can I decorate the cloth?” she asks, not serious, as she follows her mom from the room.

“Nope,” Alicia says, like this is a long-running joke. “But I’ll let you choose the candlesticks. And you can make whatever meta design you want.”

Anita grins, which bodes ill, and disappears from sight. And here I am, alone again, stranded on the outside. Dad and Wallace are watching their game, decimating the plate of nachos. Logan’s at the bar with Darryl, his slouch balanced on one elbow. Maya’s under the tree, separating gifts into piles.

I approach the bar. Darryl’s describing his last DJ gig, with great, hand-waving enthusiasm. Logan looks deeply sardonic, but stays mum on Paris Hilton and Ibiza; he’s still a few drinks shy of the duck-and-cover stage. “Where’d you stash our bags of gifts?” I ask, nudging him with an elbow. I take his eggnog away, drain it. He curls a finger into the belt of my dress, pulls me in for a kiss. 

“Behind the couch,” he says, in my ear, while Darryl examines his sleeve. “You’re being awfully good tonight. I’m starting to get scared.”

“Lose your temper, lose the battle,” I say. “Basic military strategy. Our safe word is ectoplasm, by the way, if at any point you need rescue.”

“That’ll be a cinch to work into conversation,” he mutters, wry, and I leave him to his fate.

I take the bags over to Maya, sit beside her on the floor. “Can you sort these, too, while you’re on a roll?” 

She nods, accepting the first present, with its cherry-red paper and green ribbons, its artificial sprigs of berries. “This is nice,” she says, setting it carefully on Alicia’s pile. “I like how you make them pretty.”

“Holidays are special,” I say, since I can’t tell her it’s a ploy to outdo her mother. “Gifts should be special, too.” I extract the one giant box from my bags, offer it. “This is yours.”

She traces a finger over the blue paper printed with gold birds, the extravagant swath of gold ribbon. She smiles, very faintly; she loves it when her gift is biggest. It’s actually a necklace, a star opal I bought in Australia. But I put it in a box the size of a painting, just to make her happy.

She adds it to her pile, on top, and we work in silence, distributing gifts. She’s shy and I’m contained, but I’m determined to somehow bond. She’s the best-behaved, sweetest kid I know. If I can’t get along with non-sarcastic children, my maternal instincts don’t exist.

Logan made a joke about parenthood, six months ago, when I turned twenty-nine and started angsting about thirty. It was one of those ‘Hindenberg-level disaster’ comments, which beg the hearer to disagree. Ever since, I’ve fretted. Does he WANT kids? Do I? What sacrifices would it require, and would the trade-off make us happy? Dad clearly dreams I’ll settle nearby, baking and reproducing…but I’m not having babies to please him. Would Logan love domesticity, fall under its warm, stable spell; or loathe it, and pace 24/7, like big cats trapped in zoos? Could I give enough of myself, to parent well? Would Logan’s childhood issues resurface? 

We’ve become a cohesive, tactical unit, traveling the world. I’ve taught him personal discipline, attention to boring details. He helps me cope with grey and messy emotions. We know each other intimately, as best friends and lovers. Would our relationship unravel, if a child came along? Do I want another person stealing first place in his heart?

Jesus, what is WRONG with me, this evening? I’m supposed to have fun, here, and make Parker regret fucking with me, not slouch around and mope. Repress and ignore until the angst disappears, that’s the ticket.

Parker sets a platter of warm cookies on the pass-through bar, at Logan’s elbow, and sings, “Come and get ‘em!”. Dad and Wallace approach, avid. Dad gives Logan a disapproving look, which prompts Logan to toast him and drink. Dad’s frown spreads and deepens.

“Be careful with Alicia’s eggnog,” Dad says, his light tone clearly fake. “Pardon the pun, but it packs a punch.”

I hand the last sack to Maya and rise, prepared to intervene. But Logan comes back with a relatively mild, “Don’t worry, Mr. Mars. If I was going to turn into my mother, I would have done it already.”

Dad’s face softens a fraction, as Logan holds his gaze, and I feel proud. When Logan was younger, the comebacks were provocative; ‘Hope so!’ would have been his response, or ‘I’ve developed a high tolerance’. Logan used to egg Dad on, to bitch about his failings, out of sheer perversity. At this point in his life, though, he feels he’s proved himself. And he thinks Dad ought to agree. 

My Dad’s a good man, but he has trouble with change. He doesn’t dislike Logan. He just gamed out my life in his head, when I was born, and I abandoned his plan for love. It’s the divergence from Dad’s fairy tale that stings, not the boy I chose. Logan’s flaws are Dad’s excuse. 

Logan’s sensitive, though; he takes rejection personally, and broods. And he’ll live down to low expectations, if he’s drunker than he seems.

“All right, folks, salads on the table,” Alicia calls, sounding harassed. She normally serves potluck, so this has to be a diversion. “Wallace, you pause that game, or TIVO it. Whatever you kids do, to make sure you see every second.”

“She wants you where she can WATCH you,” Darryl coos, pointing v-shaped fingers at himself, then Dad. He saunters off towards the dining room, and his voice echoes back, incredulous. “Nita, what in the name of Jeebus did you DO in here?”

“Ma SAID I could use a THEME,” Anita protests, in tones of suspicious innocence. I hook an arm through Logan’s, and he spins bonelessly to follow; he manages to drain, rather than spill, his eggnog, in the process.

“Yeah, and THIS is what she had in mind.” Darryl tsks. He’s shaking his head in mock chagrin, as we enter, surveying Nita’s handiwork. 

Candle holders range in squads, around an obstacle course of salad dressings. Candles are aimed as tactical weapons, red napkins mimic blood. The phrase ‘May the Odds Be Ever In Your Favor’ is spelled out at the center, with dried cranberries.

“Inspired,” Logan drawls. “And startlingly applicable. Oh look, wine!” He grabs a bottle of red—there are three, table center—and fills two goblets. He sprawls into a chair, pulls me down beside him; tosses a craisin in the air, catches it with his mouth.

“Get upstairs with the other children,” Darryl tells Anita, pointing at the door, fake-kicking her behind. “None of y’all eat vegetables, anyway, and mom’s in a MOOD.”

“If Pops and Logan won’t stop fighting,” Anita murmurs in my ear, “Can you maybe shove Darryl in the middle?”

“I make no promises,” I say. “One of the guns in question is loaded, so I have zero control over aim.”

Wallace passes Anita on the way in, surveys the table resignedly. “I knew a Mars-Fennel hybrid would be trouble.” He picks up his wineglass, extends it to Logan. “Help a brother out, and fill this all the way to the TOP.”

“Oh look, honey!” Parker emerges from the kitchen with pitchers of ice water and tea. “It’s a Martha Stewart re-creation of your years at Neptune High. Which one of the candleholders is the janitor who almost shot you?”

“Good old Lucky.” Logan raises his glass, studying the contents like the connoisseur he isn’t. “Indirectly responsible for our…which was it, cuddle muffin? Our third breakup? The one where I flailed around while my heart shattered, and broke a lamp. Keith put me in a chokehold, and banned me from your home.”

“I seem to recall that was number four,” I say, trying a sip of wine. “But I’m approaching thirty, so my mind is gone.”

“It was only a matter of time until Tommy Dohanic hurt someone,” Dad opines, giving Alicia an apologetic kiss, and pulling out her chair. “He needed psychiatric care, and his mental state was deteriorating. It’s sad that he got shot, but at least he did minimal damage.”

Parker snorts, settling beside Wallace, and pours a glass of tea. “Oh, he did PLENTY of damage,” she says. “PLEN-ty. Him and some others, who shall remain nameless.”

I narrow my eyes. Never mind how pissed I was at Logan, that class-war-fighting summer; no pink-clad, over-enthusiastic interloper is gonna throw shade. “Ten YEARS ago,” I say. “It’s best to let the scandals of the distant past GO, Parker. Especially the ones that are hearsay. You were still in Colorado, at the time, planning pep rallies and collecting teddy bears. You have no CLUE what went on!”

“Right, because I wasn’t here from the beginning.” Parker sets her glass down with a thud. “So I don’t get to have an opinion, or ever belong. Well, you can’t bully me into shutting up, Veronica Mars. I’m not scared of you; and the charm that made Wallace steal student files so you could spy on people leaves me cold. If I want to talk about how Logan and his friends burned the community pool, there’s no way you can stop me.”

Dad drops his fork. “LOGAN burned the community pool?” he demands, and he doesn’t sound happy. “Veronica convinced Wallace to steal student files?”

Wallace mouths ‘sorry’ at me, grimacing. Logan slouches even more, and fixes Parker with a vulpine grin.

“WOW,” he says, feigning astonishment. “SOMEBODY skipped her Prozac! What’ll you do for an encore, Kathie Lee? Smash one of these bottles, and hold it to Veronica’s throat?”

“Oh, does the truth sting?” Parker makes a regretful face. Puts a hand on Wallace’s chest, as he sits forward to intervene. “Funny how thin your veneer of sophisticated maturity is, huh?”

“Great, we’re telling the TRUTH?” I cut in, because she jabbed Logan in a tender spot, which means I’m DONE playing nice. “So I can explain to the table how you hopped on Logan in college, before the corpse of our relationship was cold; TRIED to hop on the other guy I dated, the minute you thought I wanted him; and followed it up by nabbing my best friend, when the other wells ran dry. I mean, it wouldn’t hurt a bit, if THOSE details came out, right? No way did you do all that because you felt INFERIOR.”

“Please,” she says. “You gave Logan permission to ask me out, and Wallace and I fell in love. Besides, you spent a whole weekend shacked up with Piz, while you two were still together. You expect me to believe no cheating happened, in light of subsequent internet evidence?”

“Internet evidence?” Dad demands. His voice sounds strangled. “Of Veronica and PIZ?”

“Oh boy.” Alicia grabs a bottle of wine, and pours herself a glass. “I was hoping you’d never hear about that one.”

“YOU knew about the video?” Wallace demands, exasperated. “Man, you told me once when I lied about eating candy that you’re psychic, and I didn’t believe you. I was a FOOL.”

“Darryl googled Veronica, when he was fourteen,” Alicia says, with a sigh. She takes away the napkin Dad’s trying to strangle, and tosses it on the table. “I tracked his browser history back then, because he hung out in techno music chat rooms. Cliff did his best to get the film taken down; but in the end, it proved impossible, so I just…tried to forget.”

“DARRYL found the video,” I say, slumping. “Of course. Because the whole taped-without-my-knowledge thing wasn’t humiliating ENOUGH.”

“Hey, I didn’t WATCH it,” Darryl defends himself. “How sick would that be? I will say, though, those suspenders were NOT a good look, V.”

“STOSH PIZNARSKI TAPED YOU WITHOUT YOUR KNOWLEDGE, AND PUT IT ON THE INTERNET?” Dad yells, and wow, I did not realize he could turn that purple. 

“Don’t worry, dude, I beat the crap out of Piz, for his crimes. I pasted the guy who made and posted the video, too.” Logan smirks, amused by his own joke, and I shake my head at him.

“Of course you did!” Dad says, throwing up his hands. “Because aggravated assault is your go-to solution for EVERY SINGLE problem!”

“Your daughter’s the one who ruins lives, and crumbles empires.” Logan flashes me a grin. “I’ve got similar impulses, but fewer long-range plans.”

“On-the-spot improvisation, however,” I say, patting his shoulder, “Is a skill at which you EXCEL.”

“I had recurring nightmares, for YEARS, about bribing--or breaking--you two out of some hideous foreign jail,” Dad says, staring morosely at his salad. “FYI, I’m now expecting those to come back.”

“Keith, you let her run wild all through high school,” Alicia tells him, like she’s run out of patience. “What did you EXPECT? At least she was smart and resourceful enough to get OUT of whatever trouble she got into.”

Parker snorts, leans back, and crosses her arms. “Oh, Veronica’s crises are by no means resolved. Almost every bad person in Neptune wants her head on a plate. Why do you think these two hide out overseas?”

“Now baby, you KNOW that’s not true,” Wallace chides. “I took care of Gory Sorokin.”

“Yeah, by bribing someone to revoke his residence visa. You’re willing to spend a million dollars to rescue VERONICA, but you can’t hop a plane to your own daughter’s ballet recital?”

“I had an away game!” he protests, but not with any expectation of success.

“You always have an away game!” She slaps her palm down on the table. “During which I’m responsible for EVERYTHING! And the press is always watching, so I have to perform perfectly. My life is exhausting.”

Darryl wags his finger at Wallace, snickering into the wine he’s not supposed to be drinking. Wallace throws a napkin at him. “Maybe Logan and Veronica would rather travel, than listen to y’all’s domestic-argument nonsense. You need to quit trying to do it all, and hire yourself a nanny, Parker. And YOU need to pay some attention to your wife, man, before she goes completely Suzy Homemaker crazy. Parker used to be FUN!”

“I WAS fun,” Parker agrees, mollified. “THANK you, Darryl! At least SOMEONE’S on my side.”

Dad, who’s been sunk in a brood to rivals Logan’s, finally snaps. “Give me the wine,” he says, extending his hand. Alicia does, and he pours himself a glass. He toasts the table. “I work in a dirty business, and live in a dirty town. The filth’s clearly trickled down onto the five of you, and that pains me more than I can say.”

“My problems aren’t your fault, Dad!” I protest; he gives me the ‘I’m disappointed in MYSELF, not you’ smile that used to kill me dead. “I can’t BELIEVE you would stoop so low,” I hiss at Parker. “I can take whatever you dish out. But why’d you have to ruin HIS holiday?”

“Telling the TRUTH is stooping low?” she counters, unrepentant. “You put Wallace in an ELECTRIC DOG COLLAR, and let a secret society torture him, just because some guy pissed you off!”

“I CHOSE to go undercover, to help my friend,” Wallace says, holding up a hand to silence me. “I was an adult at the time, and it’s not something my mother should hear. You need to pour yourself a drink and calm DOWN, baby. I know you want to defend me, but this is the wrong way to go about it.”

“You’re a fine one to slag me for lies, anyway,” I tell Parker, enraged. “The only thing your Perfect Barbie persona has in common with your party-girl college self is a preference for PINK.”

“People grow up,” Alicia says, abandoning her salad, shoving it aside. “ALL of you have grown up, and you need to let these old grudges slide. I’d hate to be judged on MY youthful indiscretions. I’m sure your father would say the same.”

“My indiscretions will NOT be discussed,” Dad says. “There are lines, here, that should never be crossed.”

Alicia rolls her eyes. “Keith, you blew up a car with a Molotov cocktail, because a girl you liked moved on. Veronica did not get her reckless tendencies from mealy-mouthed Lianne!”

Logan bursts into laughter. “PLEASE tell me he beat up everyone who pissed him off,” he entreats her. “Remove that last bit of moral high ground, so he quits looking down his nose.”

Darryl cough-snorts, hides it in his napkin. Steals Wallace’s salad, and proceeds to eat it all.

“Well, I don’t know if he HIT my tenant,” Alicia concedes, “But he scared the guy so badly, he ran off in the middle of the night. Left most of his stuff behind, too. I had to call the Salvation Army, to haul it all away.”

“My behavior in no way excuses yours, Logan,” Dad says, pointing. “You’re not a bad kid—I never thought you were—but you grew up in a corrupt and amoral environment. You and Lilly Kane dragged Veronica into that mess, at a very impressionable age; and it’s affected her choices, in undesirable ways.”

Logan snickers. “Oh, yeah, I’M the bad influence,” he says, dramatically waving his fork. “You sent her to spy on adulterers nightly, starting in tenth grade. You let her date a twenty-one-year-old deputy, and eat ice cream instead of meals. Did you shift her to a new school, or even try to find out WHY, when her social group shunned her and she hacked off her hair? Or were you too wrapped up in your OWN tragic drama? I concede, Keith. You’re a MODEL of protective parenting.” 

“I’m not perfect,” Dad says. “But let’s not forget, here, that you were the primary party tormenting her.”

“Dad,” I say, covering my face with my hand. We’re treading a dangerous path. “You’re missing parts of the puzzle.”

“I was in LOVE with her,” Logan says, sure enough, planting his hands on the table and rising. “Your sweet and innocent daughter asked Lilly and I for kissing lessons, when she was 15 years old; and let me tell you, she was VERY enthusiastic, as long as no one knew. When she dropped me like a hot rock, to ‘stand by you’ after Lilly died, how do you think I FELT?”

Wallace covers his ears and yells, “MY BRAIN IS BURNING!”

Parker raises her eyebrows at me, and I say, “What? Duncan didn’t do it for me, Logan did. And his girlfriend was my best friend, I couldn’t leave her OUT. Besides, who are you to get judgy? Nothing interferes with YOUR zest for life, least of all peoples’ feelings.”

She looks at Logan. He slumps back into his chair, and curls a hand around my thigh. “Well, this explains why you found dating me so boring. I figured you were just really jaded.”

Logan shrugs, unrepentant. “I’m like those baby ducks that hatch without a mother. I imprinted on swans, right at puberty, and no one else compares. I mean, LOOK at Veronica. She traveled halfway around the world, just to be present for this shitty evening, and she hasn’t destroyed ANYONE. She’s so amazing she SHINES, and she always has my back. How could I NOT adore her?”

“I love you too, Pooh Bear,” I say. “Even though you just outed me to my whole family as bi-curious.”

“Oh, like we didn’t already suspect,” Parker says. “Look who you common-law married.”

“As opposed to REAL married,” Dad interjects. “Which is ANOTHER issue I have.”

“And I suppose you would have given your blessing?” Logan demands. “Walked her down the aisle, like she wants, smiled at her while you danced? If I proposed, you’d try to talk her out of it, and I am NOT risking that.”

“Well, you just admitted enticing her into group kissing,” Dad says. “I hope you don’t expect me to say I’m wrong.”

“She enticed ME,” Logan protests. “I was desperately infatuated with my first girlfriend, before Delilah here came along. She led us BOTH down the primrose path! I mean, not that I didn’t love it, and very soon after, her. But let’s try for a little realism with this conversation.”

“It’s true,” I say, covering his hand with mine. Because no way will I let him be framed as the villain. “Logan was earnest and romantic; the sarcasm and partying came later. He and Lilly would have fared better, if they weren’t both way into me.” 

“That’s part of why we felt so guilty, when Lilly died,” Logan adds. “And fought so hard. Lilly wouldn’t have slept with Aaron, if she hadn’t caught us together, alone. She needed to be the center of attention, to buttress her self-esteem.”

“This is warping my view of the universe,” Wallace says. “I should have eaten in the media room with the kids.”

“I’m LOVING it,” Parker says. “I’m shocked Veronica Mars would admit to ANYTHING.”

“Oh whatever,” I say. “Like you’ve never gotten experimental. Your innocent act would sell a lot better, if you weren’t scheming to steal my family.” 

“I’m NOT!” Parker protests. “In fact, I AVOIDED Wallace for a long time; I was sick of the world revolving around the great Veronica Mars. But we just LAUGH so much together, and he never judges me. Plus he’s FANTASTIC in bed, without being all pervy, like Logan.”

Everyone winces, and she adds, “The truth is, the way you avoid Keith, and Neptune, just to keep your stupid House of Lies intact, exhausts me. I’m GLAD we’ve brought everybody’s dumb secrets out in the open. Maybe all of you will realize how ridiculous you seem, pretending nothing’s wrong. It’s fucking CHRISTMAS, people, and not ONE of you losers is merry!”

Logan starts laughing so hard, he inadvertently snorts wine up his nose. Everybody turns to look; he manages a thumbs-up, points at Parker, then collapses into giggles again.

“So we should view this whole disastrous conversation as healthy?” I ask, incredulous, “Like a rolfing session for the SOUL?”

“YES!” Parker says, with a ‘THANK you!’ hand gesture. “I want at least ONE family I’m part of to be functional and happy!”

“Your folks sure never will be,” Wallace concedes. “Whenever I’m forced to hang with them, I’m afraid I’ll freeze to death.”

“It’s true,” Logan manages, between snickers. “Her parents make Celeste look nurturing. And Parker’s NEVER gonna get out from under her super-achieving career mom’s shadow.”

“With which I TOTALLY sympathize,” Darryl says, like this is a point of passion. “I hate being compared to ALL of you, even though you’re family. I mean, Parker’s scarily perfect, Veronica’s just scary, Logan and Wallace are pro athletes, and even Anita has formidable talent. What have I got going on? STYLE! I’m good-looking and awesome, and I work that; but taste is the ONLY thing that sets me apart. Sometimes I think I’m the changeling in this family, ESPECIALLY after THIS conversation. Like I’m here as the cautionary tale.”

“If anybody’s got dibs on the cautionary tale role, it’s me,” Logan protests. “My parents’ murders and suicides were the scandal of the decade, and my sister’s Lindsey Lohan, only less talented. If I didn’t have Veronica, I would have died in some sordid spectacle before age 21. You’re a good person, Darryl; and let me tell you, style is more important than substance in modern society. Your skill set is the currency on which this world runs. You’ll be more famous than all of us by the time you’re thirty.”

“Should I be insulted?” Darryl asks Wallace.

“Nah, man, that’s a Logan Echolls compliment. Trust me, when he doesn’t like people, it gets a LOT uglier.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want things to turn UGLY this evening,” Parker says, with a giggle. She pours herself a congratulatory glass of wine, takes a sip. And for some reason, her baldly complacent pride in the chaos she’s created cracks me up. 

I snicker, then start laughing, covering my mouth with my hand. Logan pats me on the back, re-succumbing to the hilarity. When I murmur, “I can’t BELIEVE you told my dad about kissing lessons,” he completely loses it. 

Wallace shakes his head at Parker and says, “I never realized what a shit-stirrer I married.” But he’s smiling, clearly proud.

“I’m a woman of mystery,” she tells him. “I have many talents. Including a positive outlook, and a deep love of fun, which I won’t forget again.”

“Darryl’s right,” he says. “You DO need a nanny, so we can give those particular skills a workout together. But just for the record? You ought to cut Veronica some slack, and let her make the snickerdoodles. Because, since we’re all telling the truth, here? Hers are a LOT better.”

Dad smiles at me, from across the table. I can tell he’s still reeling from the disclosures of the evening. But he loves me no matter what, and that shines from his eyes. “Any cookie is a good cookie, but I have to admit. Veronica’s are a cut above. Then again, Veronica is exceptionally competent at everything she does. Except maybe cake-baking. Hers lean left.”

“I do that on purpose!” I say, smiling back; and it’s not that funny, but everybody laughs. We guffaw into the wine, and the uneaten salads, and the sense of vengeful rancor dissipates.

“I think this calls for a toast,” Alicia says, raising her glass. “To turning over a new leaf. And supporting each other like WE ALWAYS SHOULD HAVE, in the New Year.”

We all drink, and then Anita bursts into the room, dragging Sonja behind her. “Mom, she ate ALL of them!” she snaps, shoving Sonja forward like Exhibit A. “You need to TALK to her! She’s gonna be sick as hell!”

“Language,” Alicia says. 

Parker asks, sounding resigned, “All of what?”

“The candy we made!” Anita scowls, incensed. “Mom and I hand-molded Star Wars bon bons, for the dessert plate. We had them stashed in the upstairs fridge, because there was no space in the kitchen. Sonja kept sneaking in and out of the media room, and I caught her scarfing a whole TRAY in the hall. She had chocolate all over her FACE!”

“So I’m not perfect!” Sonja says; she’s uncowed, much like her mother. “I know I have to pretend, when Veronica’s here. But you wouldn’t let us order pizza, and the food kept not coming, and I was HUNGRY! Maya was too, she ate a whole box of Goldfish.”

“Oh my God, dinner!” Alicia mutters, hand to mouth. She sniffs, and yeah, there’s a faint scent of burning. She rushes off into the kitchen; we hear clanking and clattering, from beyond the door. 

“Uh-oh,” Parker says, drinking, and stays in her chair. “Sonja, have a seat. You’re hanging out with me for the next half hour, in case those sweets make you puke. And you KNOW we’ve talked about this. You have permission to scream curse words in private, when you get stressed out. And you have a RESPONSIBILITY to talk to someone, when your needs aren’t being met. But you should NEVER resort to doing things that hurt your body.”

“I just really like chocolate,” Sonja says, in a forlorn voice. It makes me feel sad, not only for her, but for her personality doppleganger Madison. Who never had anyone talk her out of her tree. Or maybe even recognize that’s what she needed.

“Honey, ALL women like chocolate,” Parker says. “But nobody on Earth needs more than one bar.”

Alicia comes back, slumps in her chair, and drains her wineglass. “Pizza it is,” she says, wearily. “Logan, will you make the call? You can charm and bribe your way into a quick delivery better than anyone present.”

“I’m going to enjoy having you for a mother-in-law,” he says, kissing her cheek. He whips out his phone, and spins a tale of paparazzi, electronic malfunctions, and the heartbreak of Wallace Fennel’s fame, which impresses even me. He snaps it shut, smirks, and says, “Fifteen minutes, and Wallace answers the door. Also, dude? Be prepared to autograph.”

Wallace groans, Parker says, “You’re famous, deal with it,” and Anita points and laughs, because siblings aren’t impressed. Logan gives me a significant look, and ambles out the door, hands in pockets. I grin when I realize what he wants, and wait a minute to follow.

He’s doing his most devastating lean, against the back of the couch, when I enter the den: legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded over his chest. I lock the door behind me. His smirk deepens, but he doesn’t move. 

“All that fighting got you in the mood, huh?” I ask. I approach, laying my hands flat against his chest.

“There is nothing hotter on the PLANET than watching you attack people to protect me,” he says. “And I’ve seen enough really hot things to judge.”

“We did make a deal,” I concede. “I’m not sure I got my princess crown back…in fact, I doubt anyone in that room sees me as a princess, now…but maybe I won something better, just in time to turn thirty. I think I finally forgave myself, for being the person I am.”

“The person you are is AMAZING,” Logan says, sliding his palms up the backs of my thighs, taking my skirt with them. “Not traditional, sure. And not the kind of girl the faint-hearted can handle. But I love danger, and I love you; and I can’t think of ANYONE I’d rather bang behind the Christmas tree, while the family waits outside.”

He lifts my dress over my head, disentangling the collar from my hair. Surveys my barely-there black lingerie with approval. “GOD, I’m going to enjoy this,” he says. He leads me around Maya’s piles of gifts, into the back corner of the room, hidden from the door. Presses me gently but firmly into the wall, and sinks to his knees.

It takes three minutes for me to come my brains out against his mouth; it’s all over, when he looks up at me and grins. In another four, we’ve spent together against the wall, my legs around his waist like high school never ended. He pants, in the aftermath, still thrusting while he murmurs sweet nothings; beneath the attitude, Logan’s a big-hearted sap. 

I whisper “I love you,” into his ear, because I know it makes him thrill. He shivers and kisses me, deep and messy, presses his forehead to mine. His shudders ease, gentling. We kiss until they’re done.

“So if I ask you, it’s a guaranteed yes?” he says, lips against my throat. I smile. Logan Echolls misses nothing.

“Ask me and see,” I say, threading fingers through his hair.

“Let’s get married,” he urges. “Let’s pick out a ring. People may never understand us, but we’re not splitting up. Might as well flaunt it, right? I’ll even buy you a rock bigger than Parker’s, so you can wave it in her face.”

“What the hell,” I say. “It’s not like soulmates grow on trees.”

He kisses me again, and I wind my limbs around him. The colored lights of the Christmas tree flash rainbows on our skin; beams shine off the gifts, and spicy candles scent the air. “Love you,” we murmur, at the same time. Then we laugh and kiss some more, because pizza can wait. 

And, unbeknownst to me, inside my uterus? The sperm and egg that will one day grow into Dominic Echolls, San Diego Padres All-Star, get a whole lot better acquainted.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the fabulous and talented Rupert, without whom this fic would have way too many commas, and would make zero sense. :-)


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